


Hot Under the Collar

by omg_okimhere



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 07:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11076498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omg_okimhere/pseuds/omg_okimhere
Summary: A little drabble in response to a partially misunderstood prompt on Tumblr.





	Hot Under the Collar

 

 

_Nothin’ like a trip to the barbershop to revive a man._

Jackson’s thoughts revolve around feelings of masculine satisfaction, as he emerges from Joe’s iconic bastion of hair cuttery and male gossip.  His pocket watch tells him the morning is slipping away, but this stop enroute to his place of toil on Leman Street has been well worth it.  A gentleman should always present a dapper appearance, even to his dead clients.

With the warmth of the mid morn sun striking his back, a sudden prickling at the base of his neck brings Jackson’s feet to a halt.  He scrapes one hand inside his collar, but finds no bees, only the blunt clippings from a hasty haircut.

“Damn,” he mutters, “this won’t do,” knowing that the wearing of an autopsy apron around his neck will only drive the devilish snips deeper into his skin.  Fortunately, he is not too far from home to preclude a quick change.

Five blocks under his boots bring Jackson back to his own rooms.  He has his jacket and waistcoat off before he is ten steps inside the door.  These he tosses on the divan, as he strides rapidly to the bedroom, trying to ignore the rising sensation of itching.  Yanking his braces off his shoulders, he practically rips the offending hairshirt from his body.  Only then does he see his wife, sitting calmly bemused on the corner settee near the window.  He stops dead in his tracks, a sardonic grin spreading across his face.

“Now I see why my razor grows dull so quickly.”

Susan lofts a lazy eyebrow.  “Did you think I maintained the smoothness you like so well by means of magic?” 

Wearing naught but an opaque silken dressing gown parted wantonly down the middle, she sits with one petite, well-muscled and lightly lathered leg bent into an arch, razor in her fingers, water basin at hand.

Jackson runs his eyes slowly over the scene, feeling his blood race to targeted areas of his body.  “That looks a mite dangerous, darlin’,” he observes after a few seconds, taking a step closer.  “Perhaps I should…help you.”

Locking his vision with hers, Susan props a languid forearm on her knee, dangling the straight razor from her thumb and forefinger in invitation.  “If you wish,” she says, her catlike eyes flashing.

Jackson doesn’t need a second prompt.  Dropping to his knees at her feet, he takes the blade from her, as he places his other hand on the thigh already clean shaven.  Without a word, Susan parts her legs for him.  Jackson’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down at the sight of her.

With long, sensual strokes, he bares her limb of white foam, even as he grows heady from the scent of her mingled with the fragrances of his own shaving supplies.  He takes special care on the inside of her thigh, so close to the moist blond curls that beckon him.  He can see her arousal and knows that she can see his.

When the shaving ritual is complete, Jackson takes the nearby towel and begins to gently wipe away the creamy trailings on her skin.  A delicate hand arrests his ministrations.

“I know not why you take such care, Husband,” murmurs Susan huskily.  She tosses the terrycloth aside, reaching for his buttons.  “I believe there is more to come.”

 


End file.
